


what time forgot

by orphan_account



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, spoilers for death of the outsider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Cecelia had the nightmare again.





	what time forgot

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a tweet comparing Billie's sketch of Deidre to Cecelia and damn, that is one hell of a resemblance. If anyone can find the original tweet I would love to give credit where it's due, because this fic is born of that tweet. Anyway, this is a "Deidre didn't die in the mud, Cecelia was just born there" fic, set around the time of Dishonored 2.

Cecelia had the nightmare again.

It was always the same; a carriage screeching to a halt, a woman shouting her name, and then the stick against the back of her head. She would wake up with a throbbing headache, gasping for breath with silent tears streaming down her face. How many times had she woken like that? Violently and suddenly, feeling the pain as if it was real.

She rolled over on her bed, lighting her lantern and lying back as the dim light flickered around her room. It had been fifteen years since the Pits Pub, fifteen years since she last saw young Empress Emily and Lord Protector Attano. She had a few coins on her bedside table, each of them with Emily’s face stamped on the back; it was a face Cecelia no longer recognised. She had considered writing to the Empress a few times, but whenever she put a pen to paper, her mind went blank. She figured it was for the best, it wasn’t likely that Emily or Corvo would remember her anyway.

Light was starting to spill through her curtains, and Cecelia groaned as she pushed the covers off. The past few years had made her lazy, no early mornings cleaning a pub or heading out to the docks. Life had been good to her, in a startling change of scene, and she had finally managed to scrape together her savings to buy herself a semi-popular cafe in the city. A lifetime ago, she had wanted to own the Hound Pits Pub, something she laughed about now. The pub had been familiar, but the pipes leaked and there were dead things in basement. It was a place for death and decay and sorrow, and Cecelia had let that darkness feed on her. When she showed up on the doorstep, amnesiac and starved half to death, she thought herself lucky to have a place to sleep, and wished for nothing else. Only months later, a fugitive with no blood on his hands had convinced her otherwise.

Had it been any other day, Cecelia would be down at the cafe already, greeting the steady stream of customers desperate for their morning coffee. She would chat idly with the girls she hired, maybe finish a bit of paperwork when they got quiet. Her days were predictable, but never boring, never stale. She would never complain about a life so pleasant, so achingly normal.

Today, however, on the fifteenth anniversary of Jessamine’s death, the cafe was shut, and Cecelia had the chance to sleep in. Not that it mattered; old habits of rising early proved hard to break - even with all her newfound free time - and soon she was dressed and sitting at the dining table, flipping through the newspaper absently. News of the Crown Killer dominated the pages, and Cecelia wrinkled her nose in disgust at the implications. No journalist was brazen enough to print it, but anyone could read between the lines. Dunwall had always loved to pin it’s crimes on Corvo Attano.

The morning slipped away, Cecelia alone and barefoot in her tiny home. Usually, she spent her days off trying to piece together anything she could find from her past. When she had first started, it was with the fervent passion of a mad woman grasping at straws. A book she recognised here, memories of a sister there, until she broke down on the dirty floor in the Pits Pub. Lately, she found herself collecting less and less. She guessed it was something inspirational, making new memories instead of searching for old ones, but the nightmare was something she couldn’t shake.

Nor was the woman’s voice.

When she woke, she could never remember what it was the woman yelled, she only knew it was her name, and that the name she yelled wasn’t ‘Cecelia’. It was so frustrating, so close but just outside of her grasp. The phantom headache and ghost woman were clues, Cecelia knew it, if only they didn’t dissipate the moment she opened her eyes.

A siren jolted Cecelia back to the present. From her third floor window, she could see guards pooling around the streets, though they weren’t wearing the usual Dunwall uniform. Before she could get a better look, an emergency broadcast started over the loudspeakers.

_ Attention Dunwall citizens. As of today, Delilah Kaldwin is our new Empress. All hail Delilah, first of her name. Furthermore, the former Empress, Emily Kaldwin, is now wanted for treason. Any of you found harbouring her will be fined and arrested. We urge you to stay inside your homes during this uncertain time. _

Cecelia backed away from the window, a hand over her mouth as an attempt not to cry out. How long had it been since she had felt fear like this? Was it really years, or was this the same choking terror that she felt coming out of the nightmares?

Her body kicked into action while her mind was still reeling, trying to process what was happening. She grabbed her coat and started tying her laces on reflex, the beginnings of a plan forming in her head. One thing she knew for certain; she would not stay in Dunwall while the men of the city made a grab for whatever power they could reach. Never again.

When she reached the front door, a backpack slung over her shoulder, Cecelia hesitated, feeling the weight of the world suddenly crash in all around her. It was happening again, Dunwall was rotting from the inside out. She half expected to step back and see rats multiplying under her feet, writhing and screaming in that awful way they did. She remembered Havelock and Martin and Pendleton, cold grins and greedy eyes, and she remembered the way they shot Lydia and Wallace without blinking. Beyond that, she remembered blurred faces telling her to move, to get off the street, to get out of the way. She stumbled forward, gripping the door handle hard enough to leave imprints on her skin.

She wrenched the door open, stumbling out onto the street and immediately heading for the docks. She had worked on ships before, and there had been something that felt so  _ right _ about the sea breeze and uneven floor. She could do it again, get on a whaling ship and never look back. Let Dunwall go bad and rotten, as long as she was far away from it. She only hoped the same for dear Emily.

“Hey, lady!”

Cecelia tugged her hat down and kept walking.

“Hey! Stop her!”

A hand closed over her shoulder, and Cecelia attempted to wrench herself away, but the guard held on. As she was spun around, she saw a badge on the uniform: Grand Serkonan Guard. 

“Street’s on lockdown, little lady,” the guard sneered, and Cecelia did her best not to curl her lip in disgust.

“I need to get to my mother’s home, she’s not well and she’ll be panicking.” The lie slid off of her tongue surprisingly easy, and she managed to keep most of the venom out of her voice. She was proud of herself.

The guard sniffed. “Where does your mother live?”

“By the docks.”

For a moment, Cecelia truly thought she might get away with it. The guard shrugged and moved to let her pass, but as she started to walk past him, his right hand reached for his pistol. 

She had always been skinny and sharp, so when Cecelia struck the guard’s nose with her elbow, she knew he was going to hurt. Sure enough, he howled in pain, hands flying up to cup his nose. Cecelia didn’t hang around to see the blood start to pour, she ran. The street must have had about five other guards spread out, and the situation was starting to look hopeless. She dodged the first two easily, both of them too broad and slow to lay a finger on her, but the third was a close call, almost catching her by the bag on her back. She sidestepped the fourth, only to run directly into the blunt handle of the fifth’s blade.

As she hit the pavement, Cecelia could hear her voice, hear the woman from her nightmares scream in absolute terror and anger.

_ Deidre! _


End file.
